


The Blade and the Flame

by DreamingAngelWolf



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arson, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Major Character Injury, Murder, POV Second Person, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23802031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAngelWolf/pseuds/DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: The news tells it all: "The serial killers, who have been dubbed Slash and Burn, have been terrorising the East Coast for some time now, carving a brutal path of murder and arson and with no signs of stopping. The FBI have been working closely with local city authorities to put an end to this nightmare, but are yet to release information regarding possible suspects or where they think the killers may strike next. One thing we know for sure: with such a clear lack of disregard for human life and their fellow Americans, these men are not of sound mind and incredibly dangerous."They have no idea who you are.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Thomas "Toro" Raymond
Kudos: 2





	The Blade and the Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Been a while since I posted for Bucky/Toro, but I rediscovered this piece I started years ago, and had the inspiration (and time, ha) to finish it. Nothing especially graphic or detailed, and this is far from an accurate representation of how serial killers behave! But I hope it's enjoyable, if nothing else.

_Hey Murderer_  
_The killing keeps us close enough_  
_Hey Murderer_  
_Every breath you steal is a breath that I breathe for..._

\- 'Fire Escape', Half Moon Run

***

You scour the life out of the man, the action sending a thrill up your arm to your chest. He tries to suck in a horrified breath, the blood already seeping out of his throat, and grabs at his neck impulsively. A shove is enough to send him to the floor and better observe his death. A minute of standing and watching him spasm passes before everything stops, and now he truly is a corpse. Not for much longer, perhaps.

“My turn?”

The familiar voice is a gentle hum in your ear. A hand appears in your line of vision, a matchbox held between the index and middle fingers, and his weight settles against your side. The blood is still wet on your knife but you indulge him, the snap and hiss of a match following immediately after, and in the time it takes for you to squat down and wipe the blood off on the carpet the flames are already dancing atop the corpse’s body. You straighten, turning to tell him it’s time to go, but before you utter a word he’s kissing you, hungrily, and heatedly. You can’t stop him. You wouldn’t.

“Let’s go,” he gasps, and grins as he pulls you out by the hand. The fire never quite leaves his eyes.

***

In the car, you can hear his matches rattle as he jiggles a leg. His restlessness relaxes you – he’ll want to have some fun when you both get back, and you have no problem with that at all. It’s been a while; making hits is harder after a time, and the longer spent between them the more agitated he becomes. You’ve been thinking about moving on lately, but whether or not he’d be okay with leaving so soon is still an uncertainty you don’t want to bargain with.

“What are we telling Ms. Rothschild?”

You smirk. “Give her the barbecue spiel. It’s worked on her before.” Old bat is convinced you’re each too pure for anything more salacious. In the corner of your eye, you catch his grin, and sparks flutter in your chest.

***

The media calls you Slash and him Burn. It would never believe you’re Bucky and he’s Toro. It might accept James and Thomas, but even then, it’d be a stretch; James is what your father called you, and Tom is what a face from the past called him, and anyone else using either of those names will have their tongue cut out and their lips cauterised.

Slash and Burn. So far away from Bucky and Toro that Ms. Rothschild would die laughing at the insinuation that you’re in any way related. “They’re just youngsters in love,” she’d probably say. You can play that card easily enough (because it’s not a card, a voice in your head insists), and there’s no doubt she’d believe you if you pleaded innocent.

Well. Not much doubt. Either way – if you’re made, she’ll likely have to go. Better safe than sorry.

It’s not the first time you’ve thought that when you’ve come face to face with her, and it makes you grin as she smiles indulgently at you, completely unfazed at the way Toro’s mouthing at your neck as you fumble your key in the lock.

“Good evening, boys?”

“Just a friend’s barbecue, Ma’am.”

“Oh, lovely. It’s so good to see young people still having fun with each other in the real world. My grandchildren wouldn’t know what to do at a –”

The fucking door finally opens. “Yeah, it was great.” He’s pushing you inside, hands roaming, leaving trails on your skin. “Goodnight, Ma’am.”

“Goodni-”

You almost smack your head on the wall when he forces you against it, pressing his body to yours and claiming your mouth. You’re breathless in seconds, unprepared for the high he’s riding and struggling, yet eager, to catch up. He tries yanking your jacket off, hands too impatient to wait as you help and sneaking elsewhere to leave hot imprints against your stomach, your chest, the middle of your back – pulling your t-shirt off gives him better access to bare skin, and he savours the privilege. As he licks at your collarbone you hint at your desire to get him in a similar state of dress, a hint that Toro remains oblivious to until you push him back; and that, you realise, has put another idea in his head.

Beds are better than walls. Sure, walls are fine for a quickie, but this is no fuck-and-dash. It’s Toro bent over you, kissing and grinding and panting before he’s even thought to take off pants and underwear. It’s that little whine when you make him pause to do so, and the heated scowl he gives you when you laugh; but you know just how to change that, pulling his mouth back to yours as you guide his naked hips down, and the breath audibly leaves his lungs. It’s the way he closes his eyes, lips parted, a moment of stillness you know won’t last.

This is euphoria.

He moves the most, and you’re happy to let him take control. Toro knows the art of prolonged pleasure, the slow burn taught to him by the fire he worships. Whether out of selflessness or selfishness you enjoy it, and as he finally increases the pace, breath hot as he gasps against your face, you think – not for the first time – that you wouldn’t mind dying right here. 

Afterwards, he all but falls asleep on top of you, his nose pressed to the crook of your neck. Burnt out. You envy his ability to drop out of consciousness the way he does, so suddenly and deeply; sleep is something you might dream about. Instead, plans and possibilities parade around your head: how long to wait for the media to forget, ways to keep Mrs Rothschild unsuspecting, how to make sure Toro doesn’t blow the apartment up out of boredom… Cradling his head, running your fingers through his hair, you think there’s nothing you wouldn’t do if it kept him smiling. 

***

He told you once: “Oh, sweetheart, Heaven burns, and the sun never penetrates Hell.” It’s the only gospel you believe.

***

Seconds are counted by the opening and closing of Toro’s new zippo, bought yesterday in late celebration of another successful hit. A notebook lies open on the table in front of you, the words blurring into unreadable scribbles and wobbly diagrams. You should be working out your next hit, but it’s hard – it has to be exciting, it has to fulfil a need, it has to be with purpose. The last few days have been spent scoping out buildings and targets, learning layouts and movements and timings, and all that’s been made clear to you is that you’ll need to move soon. There’s one more hit to be had in this city and then it’ll be time to pack up and leave. Perhaps that’s what’s distracting you; whatever you’ve got written down here certainly isn’t your finest work.

“Hey,” Toro says, un-muting the television. You turn to scowl at him because it’s muted for a reason, but he just points at the screen.

“… not entirely ruling out the possibility of the fire being an accident, but given the number of similar incidents we’ve already witnessed in the last few months, it would be remiss of us not to consider all the options.” The speaker is the captain of the local police department, Nick Fury. “Until we gain new evidence, however, my team will continue to work on the information we already have.”

“Captain, do you think this is the work of Slash and Burn?”

“If the evidence points to them –”

You reach for the TV remote to mute it once more. There’s nothing Fury will say that you haven’t heard already, and you need to focus on your plans. Toro’s sitting very still, his zippo shut. “It’ll be Rogers and Hammond,” he says.

“So?”

“Mckenzie –”

“Hasn’t gotten us yet.”

“But he knows they’ll know us better.” He starts to pace behind you, quickly, crossing from one side to the other almost as fast as he can flick his zippo. “Rogers and Hammond will connect the dots, and Mckenzie’ll send them out after us, and we’ll have to go on the run, and we won’t be able to do anything for months until the media hype dies down, and even then we’ll probably have to change how we do things –”

Standing, you grab him by the shoulders, telling him, “Stop.” You try to meet his gaze but his eyes won’t focus on one spot, searching your face for the solutions to all the problems in his world. Maybe you don’t have them, but you can still ground him. “They aren’t going to find us,” you say. “We won’t have to run, we won’t have to change anything, and the hype will die sooner rather than later. They don’t have the evidence.” Toro doesn’t settle though, vibrating under your hands, the zippo now clenched tightly in his fist. You cup his cheeks, gentle, yet firm enough that he has nowhere to look but at you. “Listen – I’m making the plans right now. You know I would never leave any room for anything to go wrong, right? That I’d never let anything happen to us?” He nods. “Then stop worrying. We’ll go when the plan is perfect, and only then, no sooner, no later, and everything will be fine.”

“How long will it take?”

“As long as it needs to.” A small frown shapes his brow, but you’ve placated him for now. “Hey, why don’t you get us some food while it’s still light out?”

Toro and his zippo go out for something quick and cheap while you and your pen get back to work at the notebook, a newfound focus sharpening all the details.

***

Five days later, you tell him, “It’s done,” and the date is set for within three days. He’s so excited you wouldn’t be surprised if he spontaneously combusts in front of you.

At night, however, he buries himself into your chest. You try to keep him safe in your arms, tucking his head under your chin and running your fingers slowly through his hair again, hoping the gesture is calming. He rarely acts like this, like a child anticipating a storm on the way to shake the foundations of home. No good will come from telling him that you feel it too.

***

It goes wrong. It all goes unthinkably wrong.

***

A long time ago, James Barnes and Thomas Raymond turned their backs on the man who rescued their young, orphaned selves. After a decade of spilling blood and gasoline for Johann “Red Skull” Schmidt, they sought the aid of two good officers and cut a deal: information on Red Skull, and an out for James and Thomas. Imprisonment for freedom. Steve Rogers and Jim Hammond – both blonde, blue-eyed and wholesome – readily agreed. It never would have occurred to either of them that there might have been some truth to the old Hydra mantra; Red Skull was cut from his body, and out of the opening James and Thomas had carved, Bucky and Toro emerged. 

You are nothing like Red Skull, and you severed your connections to Hydra, but Rogers and Hammond don’t care about that. To them, the two of you are monsters of their own creation, and their incomplete sense of responsibility has led to this:

Toro, held against your hip, barely able to stand, bleeding from a gunshot in his side. You, a knife clutched in your free hand, raised arm fixed like steel. Rogers, hands raised, the American flag in his voice as he talks about The Right Thing. Hammond, crouched nearby, his smouldering jacket abandoned in one corner of the apartment, a black scorch mark along his cheekbone.

Behind you is the balcony and a one-hundred-and-fifty-foot drop. And between the four of you, a line of alcohol soaked into the carpet.

Toro speaks through clenched teeth. “You promised.” _You fucked up._

“I know.” _I’m sorry._

He’s shaking in your hold, tremors upon tremors, and they reverberate in your very core – because it’s your fault he’s hurt, your failed execution of an evidently flawed plan; and now it’s up to you to think of a new one on the spot, one that will save you both. It doesn’t help that Rogers and Hammond have the upper hand here, but Toro’s life is on the line. They will go if they need to. You won’t underestimate them again.

“Co-operation now will make things easier for you both in the long run,” Rogers says, his ‘Captain’s Speech’ evidently over. “So what do you say?”

He may have his hands raised, but Hammond is showing no such signs of surrender – if you were to throw the knife, it would have to be towards him, force Rogers to go for his weapon and maybe give you enough time to run at him; by which point Toro may have dropped his zippo on the line, or thrown it at Hammond again, or –

Toro wriggles free from your hold and stumbles in front of you, zippo shining silver and red in the late afternoon sun (you’d timed this so his best work would look resplendent – so he would smile brightly enough to challenge the fires of both Earth and the universe – not so your worst work, his tool bloody instead of yours, would gleam in mockery). He looks over his shoulder, some new strength keeping his shaking body from collapsing in on itself, and as your eyes meet you see it.

You stare back, frozen.

He turns to the officers. “You’ve already helped us enough.”

There’s a shove against your chest, hard enough to send you backwards and over the balcony railing. You would scream, but the sound is trapped in your throat, has been since you recognised that look in Toro’s eyes: resolve. There’s the _snick_ of a zippo opening and then you’re falling, alone, out of control, no escape, and it _hurts_ because he knows how afraid you are of falling.

For the briefest of moments, before gravity owns you completely, you see Toro, in the apartment, covered in flames.

***

You’re terrified of falling, but you always fall for him.

***

_Something’s missing._

It’s the first semi-coherent thought you have after waking up. The sense that something that should be there isn’t, under the pain and the cold and the need to breathe and the hands that hold you down (like you’re nothing more than a child again, pressed back into a chair while you beg and plead for them not to do it, you’ll do better next time, you’ve already learned from your mistakes, you won’t make them again – “That’s what we’re making sure of,” your ‘handlers’ say, and before the punishment comes you cry out for –)

“James.” 

You have a visitor. As you watch his every move, Rogers takes a seat without asking, tries to smile. “It’s good to see you’re awake.”

On your worst days, when doubt blunted your sense of purpose, you used to wonder what would have happened if Rogers and Hammond had done more than help you get out, if they’d recognised the deeper damage done to children who had no business being part of the world they found themselves in. Their smiles were reassuring, once. Seeing nothing but an attempt at one now, all you want is your knife, yet you can’t clench your fingers around it when nothing’s there to clench. 

_No, that’s not it…_

“Have the doctors told you what happened?” If they have, you don’t remember. “You fell from the top floor of a fourteen-storey building, hitting an open window on the way down. It broke your fall enough to save your life, however I’m afraid your arm was beyond what the surgeons were capable of. I’m sorry.”

Sure enough, you’re missing a limb. On your left, everything from your fingertips to about halfway up to your shoulder is gone. Frowning, you vaguely recall knowing this, as if you’d already seen it and raged and yelled because no, that’s not right, that’s not fair.

_Something’s still missing._

“You were in a coma for about a week and a half, but you woke up a couple of days ago. I know you’re probably still in need of rest, but –”

“Where’s Toro?”

Rogers freezes for a heartbeat. He swallows. “I just came by to inform you that, given your circumstances, we’ll be conducting our initial questioning here at the hospital, while you recover. It won’t be quite like a formal interview normally would, but with how much media attention is on us all, it was decided that we couldn’t wait until you were better.” He sighs, a mildly surprising flash of anger showing across his face. “If it were up to me, I’d wait, give you the time to come to terms with everything, but…” A bitter shake of the head. “It’s not my decision.”

Oh, and that kills him, it’s plain to see. You got good at reading him after you first met all those years ago, his tells and ticks, and right now you’re getting a clear picture: shirt untucked, tie barely knotted properly, hair messy, stubble thicker than normal, shadowy bags under his eyes…

“So, yeah. Expect to see me again in a day or two. I can promise you now, we won’t go too hard to begin with. If there’s anything in the meantime you want to tell us, you can let one of the nurses know and they’ll get in touch with us.”

Your throat is as dry as old wall plastering. “Where’s Toro?”

Rogers stands up, adjusts his suit jacket unnecessarily, his tie poorly. “Get some rest, James,” he says kindly, strained, and leaves.

***

That idiom, to miss something like you’re missing a limb? It’s bullshit.

***

As Rogers promised (like there was ever any doubt), he’s back to question you not a day later. You might have become accustomed to not having an arm and having various needles in the other one – and a cuff around the wrist – but you’re still tired, you’re still hurt, and you’re still missing the most important thing.

“Can you explain what your intentions were when you invaded the apartment of Miss Jasmine Hennessy on April 3rd?”

“Where’s Toro?”

“I need you to answer the question, please, James.”

So do you, you think. And thus, that’s how things go from there.

“Do you have any connection to Miss Hennessy?”

“Where’s Toro?”

“Does Miss Hennessy bear any connection to any of your previous victims?”

“Where’s Toro?”

“How did you choose your targets?”

“Where’s Toro?”

He runs a hand down his face. “Was there a particular reason you waited as long as you did between attacks?”

It’s then that you realise – you’re in similar positions, you and Rogers. You both want answers you’re not getting; you’re tired, he’s thoroughly worn out; you’re physically hurt, he’s emotionally strained; you feel vulnerable, he must feel like an exposed nerve. The fact that he’s here on his own…

Time to ask again.

“Where’s Hammond?”

Finally, Rogers’ eyes lock with yours. Deep ocean blue, hard and furious and anguished. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Did you know the entire apartment block burned down?” he says, the words a little rough around the edges. “I managed to get the residents to safety, but the top floor collapsed before I could get back up.”

He knows where they are. He knows. “Where’s. Toro?”

Finally, he tells you. You don’t believe him. He repeats himself. All you can do is laugh.

***

Here’s something you’ve always known in your soul: Toro was made of fire. And fire like that? It doesn’t go out easily.

***

_All you have is your fire_  
_And the place you need to reach_  
_Don't you ever tame your demons_  
_But always keep them on a leash._

\- 'Arsonist's Lullaby', Hozier

**Author's Note:**

> I may be able to throw out a sequel... Might have a vague idea for one already in mind...


End file.
